


Rope.

by liznt



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Light BDSM, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Rope Bondage, Sleep Deprivation, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liznt/pseuds/liznt
Summary: It takes something a little stronger than a lullaby to get a Witcher to sleep.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 161





	Rope.

Geralt has washed up again on Jaskier's shore. As he does in those periods in which him and Yennefer aren't regularly fucking each other's brains out. Appears dried up and frazzled like a pale piece of battered driftwood, who won't stop yelling at innocent little barmaids.

Jaskier thunks his pint onto the table. "Right, that's it. I'm putting you to bed."

"Hn?" Geralt’s gaze whips back to Jaskier, as if he’d forgotten he had company.

"You haven't slept in a week, have you?" Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but- "Your hair looks like shit, your skin looks like shit, and you're lucky if she-" he points at the poor wench, now being consoled behind the bar, "-doesn't smear shit in our breakfast."

"Half a cask of Valarian wine couldn't knock me out. What makes you think you have a chance?"

_I've seen what she does to you. I can do that to you too._

"As you may recall I spent my last _luxurious_ summer in Touissant-"

"Tiptoeing around the Duchess."

Jaskier continues an iota louder, "-travelling with the Cirque du Nadir. In exchange for playing sweet music all night long, they-" he taps the tabletop in time with his words, "-taught me some tricks."

Jaskier sincerely hopes Geralt doesn't know what the Cirque du Nadir _actually_ does.

"Hm..." 

Which, from Geralt, can mean almost anything. A mix of experience and hope tells Jaskier this one is definitely _maybe yes, please, but I'll never say it._

"Half an hour, Geralt."

Jaskier drains his drink, and walks up the stairs at the back of the inn. Geralt follows.

Jaskier's room, of course, is almost identical to Geralt's: a fireplace in the wall to the right of the door, and a four poster double bed to the left, a chest huddled in the corner, a small table beside the bed with a jug of water. All the wood stained dark, and then darker again with age.

Jaskier strolls to the chest and crouches to root around for what he needs. Or rather, to pretend to, while he gets started on what he's really doing. "It's a bit cold in here," he says without turning around. "Could you throw a log on?" He listens to Geralt's heavy steps across the room, his leather trousers creaking as he crouches, the thump of wood, and rush of fire. He doesn't wait for Geralt to stand. "Actually, I'm parched-" he waves his hand vaguely over his shoulder at the bedside table, "-could you..?" Geralt grumbles, but he's already walking.

Jaskier stands, and turns towards him. He holds his hand out for the glass with a pleased little smile. Geralt looks unimpressed, says, "You're wasting your ti-"

"Don't talk." Jaskier looks him in the eye as he interrupts, then casually away as he takes a single sip of water and places the glass back on the table.

Geralt frowns harder, his lips pursed, but does limit himself to exhaling angrily through his nostrils.

"Take off your boots." Geralt kneels, sighs, shakes his head, hastily unties and pulls off his boots. He stands and stares back at Jaskier, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. Jaskier lifts his chin a little higher, raises a brow. _If you want to play that game._

"Stay there." He walks in a circle around Geralt, looks him up and down, appraising. Geralt is too proud to twist his head to watch, but still his head shifts, as it does when he's listening carefully to whatever might be trying to sneak up behind him.

"And your coat," he says as he circles back to the front. Geralt is still glaring, but he does what he's told, without taking his eyes off Jaskier. He holds it out to Jaskier like a question. Jaskier throws it backwards onto the floor at the foot of his bed. Geralt's top lip twitches, almost a snarl.

"Your shirt."

Geralt growls, "Jaskier-" but he's cut off by an open palmed slap across his jawbone and, for Geralt, Jaskier doesn't hold back the force.

"I told you not to talk."

Geralt glares him down, teeth just bared, panting with anger. So Jaskier looks him straight in the eye. _Yes, big boy, I know you could kill me if you wanted to._ Jaskier smiles, but only so he can show Geralt his teeth too. _But we both know you wouldn't dare._ "Trousers. Now." Where before his voice had been low, almost absentminded, it is now tinged sharp with steel.

Geralt does what he's told. He hands them to Jaskier, to throw onto the floor, although now he doesn't seem to want to meet Jaskier's eye. He's looking vaguely towards the fire, trying to make it look like disdain and not. Obedience.

His hands hover over his drawers, waiting to be told if they’re next. Jaskier tucks a finger inside the hem, and watches. Geralt shifts, imperceptibly angles his head away, as if Jaskier had slapped him again, so Jaskier puts away the steel. “Not tonight.” Instead, he turns his back to Geralt and, tonight a lord, angles his arms ready for a servant to pull his doublet off his shoulders. 

_Call me lord._

Geralt steps forward. Despite all the preceding twitching and clenching, the fingers that brush Jaskier’s shoulders are calm. Doublet gone, Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed and watches Geralt hang his doublet on the back of the bedroom door. When he returns to him, he says, "Down on your knees here-" he points to the floor almost between his feet, "-for me."

When Geralt moves his muscles shift like tides. Jaskier feels a rush of blood, a tide within himself. Geralt on his knees, eyes downward, the firelight glinting in the golden irises, and painting his left cheek.

Pulling off his shirt has untucked yet another wisp of hair from Geralt’s perpetual ponytail. Jaskier leans down and smooths one, two locks down against his head, and then pretends there's a third because Geralt's shoulders are softening. Drooping towards Jaskier's touch.

He slides his foot along the floor towards Geralt. Another request, an expectation of compliance, without even having to ask. In slow motion Geralt curls his fingers around the back of Jaskier's calf, almost behind his knee, then the other around the heel of his boot, and begins to slide it off. Jaskier leans back on his hands and flops his head to the side to watch.

It's rare to see Geralt be gentle, but not because he is not often gentle. He is just often alone, in the middle of the woods, picking the delicate stems of rare herbs, or cleaning an uncomfortable pebble out of Roach's hoof.

The air feels fresh on Jaskier's toes as Geralt unwinds his foot wraps. He works carefully, each touch slow and deliberate. Jaskier wiggles his toes. The corner of Geralt's mouth twitches upwards, and Jaskier finds himself plopping his foot onto Geralt's shoulder. Because he _can_. Geralt huffs out a breath, closes his eyes for a moment to smile, yes, just like he does, deep in the woods, when Roach is being affectionate. Jaskier scratches his big toe against the side of Geralt's neck.

And then Geralt drops his other foot, now bare, onto the floorboards, and Jaskier has to get back to work. He stands and, as he crosses the room back to the chest, taps Geralt on the shoulder and says, "Don't turn around," just to make Geralt squirm.

Jaskier crouches and dances his fingers over the collection of small glass bottles filled with oils, lotions and unguents that he travels with. He picks tonka, arnica and chamomile to soothe. Rose hip and lemon, bought in Rivia years ago, for the smell of the tea that he'd seen the local women gossip over in the mornings. And lilac, because one summer's day it had wafted off Yennefer as he was hopping out of her warpath.

On his way back he pauses, with an embarrassingly large smile on his face, to tap two of the bottles together just behind Geralt's ear. Maybe Geralt isn't the kind to squirm, but Jaskier sees his brow flex as he tries to look over his shoulder without moving his head.

And once Jaskier is back where Geralt can see him, his eyes track every movement as Jaskier sits and uncaps the first bottle. He takes his time running the first oil onto his fingers.

Jaskier leans down and hooks a finger under Geralt's hands, where they rest on his thighs, and lifts them into his own. He turns them over, palm up. As Jaskier spreads the oil across his palm, and in tight circles presses firmly into the fleshy parts of each hand, Geralt's curious little frown melts away. His blinks come in mesmerised slow motion as Jaskier works between his fingers and up over the inside of his wrists, where the skin is soft. (Yes, there are parts of him that are soft.) Geralt's eyes drift lazily between his own skin and Jaskier's fingers. Jaskier trails two fingertips up the inside of Geralt's arm, to the crook of his elbow, then raises the arm to Geralt's nose. As Geralt breathes in rosehips, lemon and Rivia, his eyes drift closed, and don't open.

The ritual starts again with the second scent. Those two fingers now run along Geralt's collar bones, then with his knuckles and his thumbs he oh-so-gently tilts Geralt's chin upwards to bare his neck. His breaths are great and deep. Jaskier sweeps upwards against each soft plane of his neck. _Beautiful, Geralt._ Geralt rumble-sighs in return.

_You're mine now._

He lets his fingers trail up to the soft skin behind Geralt's ear and into his hair. Unprompted, Geralt drops his head again, and Jaskier takes the chance to untie the cord holding the hair back from his face. He pulls a lock away from where it had still held the bent shape of the ponytail. Arranges strands around his face. He could do so much with this hair. But not in half an hour.

Jaskier sits back, and waits. Lets the room sit silent, and Geralt untouched, until his eyes pop open, confused. They're dazed, dreamy, more black than orange. They lock eyes for a moment and then Geralt’s eyes follow as Jaskier leans down, and pulls a ruby-red drawstring velvet pouch from under the bed.

He places it between them on the floor, pulls it open and says, "Pick two."

Geralt's eyes and then his fingers drift over the ropes. Jaskier knows his life already involves a worrying amount of rope, but he suspects none are as smooth and richly coloured as these. He watches Geralt's eyes catch back and back again on one spot until he lifts out his choices. Two ropes, purest black, and that, in scale with Geralt, are thicker than most. In scale with Geralt. Jaskier can't deny, he might have had certain people, who like to wear black, in mind as he put together his collection.

"Brilliant," he speaks, barely louder than the crackling of the fire. Geralt hands the rope into Jaskier's offered hand, and he sets one to his side on the bed, and pulls the end out of the other. He holds his hands out, palms up, and Geralt places his hands, now fists, in Jaskier's. _Not sure, hm?_ Jaskier worries his thumb inside to Geralt's palm. He runs the pad in a circle - soft skin to soft skin.

He unfurls Geralt’s hands, presses the fingers backwards to stretch out the tension, twists his hands palm up and bends them back too. Turns them back and pulls upwards, to see the muscles shift under his skin. To see the gold light dance through his silver hair. To see his eyes glaze over again, watching his own hands under Jaskier's control.

He crosses Geralt’s wrists. Shakes his head. Too severe. Tries pulling his forearms across each other. Too constrained. Jaskier stands, dropping one hand to walk with the other behind Geralt's back. Geralt mirrors that movement with the other. _Good, good boy._ Jaskier takes that offered wrist and pulls Geralt's arms backwards. Back until his breath hitches with the strain of staying upright. Back one degree more and a suppressed grunt escapes from deep in Geralt's throat. Jaskier's lip twitches upward, a lopsided smile revealing one canine, and releases the pressure.

It's the fall forwards that follows, Geralt’s hands pulled fast in front of him to stop his shoulders from hitting the floor, that gives Jaskier the solution. Jaskier unwinds the rope, folds it in half, and twists it around his hand - ready to go. He swipes the back of his finger down across Geralt's cheekbone and then leans over his shoulder. Arranges Geralt’s wrists in front of his chest, wrist to wrist, palm to palm. Praying.

With a flick of his fingers Jaskier pulls the rope into life. He places the loop between Geralt's hands and presses them together to hold it there. He twists the two ends quickly around Geralt’s wrists. The urge to bite the cusp of Geralt's neck washes through him, and the deep shaky breath that he releases passes into Geralt as a shiver.

The rope rises in arcs across the back of Geralt's hand, dips between his fingers, and runs between his palms. _Here, darling, something for you to hold on to._ Geralt watches, head bowed again, as Jaskier's fingers dance over him. His deep, slow breaths ruffle the hairs on the back of Jaskier's hands. Feeling the passed minutes in his muscles, Jaskier rests his chin on Geralt's shoulder. He threads the rope back through Geralt's wrists and from there works down Geralt's forearms, tying back and forth in sections, firm, but not so tight that Geralt can't shift as he pleases once Jaskier is done with him.

And then. Finished. He pauses for just a moment. Just that kind of moment when you wake up in the morning so warm, and so calm, that you beg it to last forever. Jaskier could stay here forever.

_Just a moment longer._

When you blink and will time to stop.

_Just a moment longer._

Jaskier takes a deep breath. I'll write a song about this, and the song will inspire paintings, and the paintings books, and this moment will echo forever.

_If I just don't move, it can't end._

Geralt flexes, twists his head a little to the side. His body asking that ever present _Hm?_ and with a great in-breathed sigh Jaskier pulls himself awake.

Jaskier returns to stand in front of Geralt. He stands over him. Geralt gazes upwards, transfixed. Jaskier takes the loop that Geralt now has no choice but to hold daintily between his palms, and steps backwards and up onto his bed, pulling Geralt with him. When Geralt rises, unsteadily on half sleeping legs, knees red from the hard wooden floor, Jaskier holds him steady with taught rope.

He sees beneath him a salmon swimming upstream. A snake being charmed. No. An alabaster statue raised onto a plinth, Jaskier a sculptor. _Tonight, Geralt, you are my creation._

They stand together for a moment, at the peak, chests close, eyes stuck. Jaskier's fingers want to sneak along the rope to Geralt's fingers. In some world they do. Here, hands firm on Geralt's shoulders, Jaskier presses him down again. Lays him on his back with his head at the foot of the bed and his hands folded up to rest on one shoulder. Two knuckles on his chin are enough to tilt his head back and his face towards the fire. Let the firelight dance in his golden eyes, and wash warm over his face.

Jaskier sits back on his haunches and, as with his arms, sets about arranging Geralt's legs. Straight together is too simple, too sarcophagean. Thinking, he absently fidgets Geralt's foot side to side, then tries legs apart, bent back on themselves at the knee. A classic for certain purposes, but it makes Geralt's toes curl, so Jaskier squeezes his knee, and releases him. He straightens one, lays it back on the bed, then sets the flat of Geralt's foot against the inner thigh of his other leg. And Jaskier sees a carefree figure sleeping in the sunny shade under a tree. Perfectly composed asymmetric imperfection. Almost ballet.

Jaskier lifts the second rope from its rest, and begins to bind Geralt in place. His fingers move slow, heavy with the pleasure of watching Geralt from this angle, as Jaskier had laid him. Starting from that raised foot, Jaskier binds steadily down his calf. With each knot, the tension seeps out of Geralt and into the ropes.

His breaths deepen.

His neck slacks further backwards, baring ever more throat.

His fingers curl inwards like a flower closing with the setting sun.

He melts, completely slack into the sheets.

Jaskier loops the last stretch of rope under the arch of Geralt's foot and ties the final knot. Twice, he taps the tip of Geralt's big toe with the side of his finger. _Done, done._ Geralt hums through slack lips in reply, as if he means to speak, but forgets the words on the way.

His eyes are still cracked open, but barely.

Jaskier lies, curled on his side, his hand stretched out, fingers tracing over the rope, sending whispers through them into Geralt.

_Breathe out, Geralt. Just keep breathing out._

* * *

Jaskier wakes when the light is pale blue, and the embers are faint in the fireplace. Behind him Geralt shifts restlessly, grumbling to himself. He rolls over to look. Geralt is sitting up, hunched over his wrists. With a frustrated growl he bares his canines and lifts the ropes towards his mouth.

Jaskier dives across the bed and slaps Geralt on the forearm, "You _cannot_ afford those."

Geralt’s head snaps up. "Untie me," he growls.

Jaskier sits back and crosses his arms.

"Jaskier," he says in his threatening voice. He still hasn't learnt that it doesn't work on Jaskier.

Jaskier raises a brow, and taps his fingers against his forearm. With a wicked, sweet, little smile, he asks, "How did you sleep?"

Geralt's jaw flexes. Anger, or discomfort? He grits out, "Well. Thank-you. Jaskier," -the words apparently difficult. "Untie me now," and then his eyes stutter downward again, "-please." Well, Jaskier supposes, it does take ageless old dogs longer to learn new manners.

Jaskier leans forwards to Geralt's outstretched hands. With his hands on Geralt's, smirking, he flicks his eyes upward. "They're not like your average outlaw's knots, are they?"

Geralt says, "Hm," and Jaskier laughs, because it definitely means, _Yes, Jaskier, those were good tricks, and I will not be admitting it._ He pulls open the first knot and lets the morning silence settle between them as Jaskier undoes all of last night's fun.

Soon he's sitting back against the headboard, folding away his rope, watching Geralt stretch the sleep out of his limbs. Watching him put back on his big scary black clothes, to put away Geralt, ready to walk out of the room and turn back into a witcher. And probably disappear before lunch.

Jaskier all but leaps off the bed, rope in hand, towards Geralt's back. Geralt, obviously listening, though showing no sign, slows. Jaskier flicks the rope over his head. Pulls it tight across his throat. And Geralt's spine straightens.

The thing about Geralt is that at any moment he could turn and snap Jaskier's neck. But he never does. And it's just _too_ delicious to make dangerous people feel _restraint_.

Jaskier's breath brushes the shell of Geralt's ear, "Come back any time, Geralt."

Geralt does.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published as part of Dandelion Wine - A Geraskier Fanzine.


End file.
